


touching me, touching you

by mako_lies (wingeddserpent)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Blind Character, Established Relationship, M/M, World of Ruin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-25 01:16:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17111702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingeddserpent/pseuds/mako_lies
Summary: Ignis and Prompto relearn each other, in the end of days.





	touching me, touching you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darlathecyborgpluviophile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlathecyborgpluviophile/gifts).



> I hope this is what you wanted! I took your prompt a bit liberally, but I really enjoyed writing this!
> 
> Notes: This work contains references to past torture, and past non-consensual touching (or non-con, depending on how you read it).

Noctis’s angry, anguished hiss beside him sounds just moments before Ignis smells that salty blood tang. He nearly stumbles, hand on his cane gone lax. He perhaps has never wanted to see more. Gladio breathes, “Easy, Iggy. He’s ahead. He’s here.”

There is the tell-tale ozone in the air, disorientating—he knows Noct is gone from his side, warped, but where? Finding him again after he has vanished is a task that Ignis must accept, despite the dread that curls in his chest. But he hears Noct’s cry ahead—”Prompto!”

Ignis and Gladio run to the cell. Next: the hiss of the doors, some kind of mechanical release—and Prompto’s soft pained gasp as he hits the floor. Had no one thought to catch him, before they let him fall? Perhaps not, in their haste. Ignis aches to have caught him, but how could he have?

“Hey, you alright?” Gladio’s voice is gruff with concern, but still Prompto pants in pain on the ground.

“Are you hurt?” Ignis asks. Of course he’s hurt—he sounds hurt. Ignis wishes he could see. But he can smell blood and sweat and metal. “Do you need help?”

Perhaps he has learned the hard way, but Ignis knows the sting of being helped when it is not wanted (though perhaps needed). “I’m fine.” Prompto takes a deep breath. “Thank you, Noct.” It would be easier to believe him, were his voice still not wracked with pain.

“No sweat.”

They are all hovering. Ignis and Gladio have trained to withstand torture in theory, but there was never enough time for Prompto to be prepared. While not a civilian, he is certainly no soldier. Ignis can only imagine what Ardyn has done to him. “Tell me. Were you worried about me?” Prompto asks.

It reeks of the kind of mind-play Ardyn has performed before. Even Ignis has felt the way his words slip into every crack of the mind, of the heart, of the spirit. When there is time, they will have to fill that gaping maw left—and whatever monsters lurk within it—in Prompto. When their is time. 

Noctis says, “Of course I was. What kind of question is that?”

“Of course. That’s why you came, like I believed you would,” Prompto’s voice is soft, hopeful.

“Prompto,” Noctis whispers, trying to stop him. Trying to reassure him.

“That’s why—” Prompto’s voice cracks with emotion, “I told myself I couldn’t die. Not until I could see you and hear you tell me that I’m not a fake—that I’m the real me.”

They never did get the full story of how Noctis came to push Prompto from the train. Only that by some foul trick the Chancellor wore Prompto’s face, and forced his own image upon Prompto. The exact circumstances remain elusive. Too painful for Noctis to speak, upon all his other hurts. Still, the guilt is clear—”I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Everything’s alright now.”

 

Except it isn’t. Prompto slows them more than Ignis already has. Noctis is hovering, Ignis thinks, his footsteps nearly in step with Prompto’s. They are merely doubling back to the last dormitory, but the corridor has lengthened, surely, since they came despite the relief thrumming through their party.

Gladio murmurs, “Mostly bruises. Some cuts. He was wearing all his clothes, but they weren’t put on quite right. He was strung up on some kinda machine—kept his hands up over his head. His wrists are probably real fucked up.” There’s a long pause, as Prompto gasps up ahead, like he’s stumbled. Gladio continues, beneath the uneven tread of Prompto’s feet, “The room had a table with saws, needles. Y’know. Things for torture. Looked clean. Mighta been staged for our benefit, but I dunno…”

Ignis closes his eyes, but cannot shut anything out. His cane bangs against something, and Noctis hisses. Noct’s heel, then. “Have we stopped?” Ignis asks. “Are we here?”

Before, he had counted his footsteps. But the constant turns and attacks by daemons and MTs make it hard. Ignis cannot fathom where they are. They could be walking in circles, and Ignis would never know.

“We’re here,” Noctis agrees, and Gladio’s hand slides over Ignis’s hip to guide him through the door.

They have but a moment here. There is just not enough time.

 

Gladio and Noctis noisily ferret for food. They’re loud enough that Ignis can keep track of them, and he is grateful. He feels for the low bed, then follows his hand to sit. Prompto pants jaggedly beside him. “You’re injured?” Ignis coaxes.

Someone turns the radio on and somehow finds a station playing classical. But it is the same three songs, the same commercials. He wonders what happened to the DJ, even as he welcomes the sound.

Privacy comes in fits and bursts, and they create the illusion of it when possible. The white noise is enough tomaintain the scraps of Prompto’s dignity. “Not too bad,” Prompto whispers. “A couple of potions should be fine.”

“May I—?” He stretches out his hands, palms up, for Prompto to accept or reject.

The music fades from a dirge to a polka, and it is the kind of dichotomy that the Empire is known for in the arts: stark juxtaposition. The theory being that emotional response comes from the overlap of opposites: the spaces between sacred and profane, good and evil, beautiful and grotesque. It has always been too shocking for Ignis’s tastes.

Prompto gently brushes his fingertips over Ignis’s. “Can I just have the potions?” His voice is tight, with that little tremble.

“Yes, of course,” but Ignis hesitates even as he calls the cool vials to his hands.

Prompto had meticulously organized their stock after Altissia. Before, they had relied on sight to know which potion was which. It had always been easy enough. Light blue for potion, dark for hi-potion. Green ethers. Purple elixirs. 

During those dreadful days of healing in Altissia, Prompto had scrounged up differently shaped and textured vials, and meticulously poured their curatives into an organization Ignis could use. With patient gentleness, he’d smoothed Ignis’s hand over each type and told him the name, and his reasoning.

“This one is an elixir. It’s the pretty smooth bottle that’s all heart-shaped, yeah? Because they’re my favorite.”

Ignis proffers an elixir now. He’s not fool enough to think a few potions will suffice, especially when he doesn’t know the full extent of his injuries nor how long his injuries have been left to fester. They cannot spare any hi-elixirs, but he has one ready regardless. He hears the crush of the glass and a soft sigh of relief.

“Thanks, Iggy. I feel better.”

He has to trust Prompto’s words, if Prompto will not let him check. Ignis folds his hands in his lap, and says, “Tell us if you feel any discomfort. Is there any pain left?”

“I… A bit. But I’m fine, Iggy. Just wanna catch some Zs before we go get the Crystal, you know?”

Ignis swallows down his fussing. “Very well, darling.”

+

Ignis wraps his arms around Prompto, the whole line of his body pressed to Prompto’s back. It is the first time Prompto’s allowed him near in the week since they found him. It seems longer than a week, since Noctis was dragged into the Crystal. Longer than a day since they returned to Lestallum to regroup.

Perhaps it is more apt to say that they have returned to Lestallum to mourn, though Ignis has not yet found the words to tell Gladio and Prompto of Pryna’s final vision.

The bed creaks as Prompto shifts in his hold. This furnished apartment Monica and Dustin scrounged up for them is welcome, if not cramped. It is more spacious with Gladio staying with Iris, Talcott, and Cor. “Is this all right?” Ignis murmurs, again.

“Yeah. Just—” Prompto shivers, though his body is radiant with heat as ever.

Ignis clutches him tighter beneath the thick duvet. He is positively roasting, sweat slicking his undershirt to him, but the contact is his priority. Prompto, usually so tactile, must need it as well. Ignis traces his hands over Prompto’s undershirt. Since Altissia, Prompto has lost weight—Ignis flits his fingers over the gaps in Prompto’s ribs.

“Have you been—?”

“Please, don’t,” Prompto whispers. “Sleep? Lights are out.”

Ignis isn’t sure Prompto ever turned the lights on, but his meaning is plain. He settles his hands at Prompto’s waist. “Good night, love,” he offers.

“Night, Iggy.”

 

He wakes to an empty bed. Sleep drags at him, even as his fingers quest for the body he hazily thinks should be beside him. Ignis jolts when he finds Prompto’s side cold. “Prompto?” His heart freezes in his chest. Where is he? On instinct, he fumbles for a light.

“Iggy?” Prompto slurs from below. “Iggy? Whassit?”

Prompto must be on the floor. Ignis forces himself to breathe, even as he puts on his glasses for something to do with his hands. Sleeping on the floor is evidence enough that Prompto will not welcome his touch, no matter how he wants to feel that he is whole. “You were gone,” Ignis murmurs. “Prompto—what happened?”

There is silence for long enough Ignis wonders if he has fallen back asleep. It’s a habit that aches of Noctis, but Astrals above, they all need rest. “Sorry, Ignis. I just… I needed to sleep down here. It’s ok. You don’t have to be worried about it. It’s not a thing. Just. Too much, you know.”

Ignis doesn’t. He really doesn’t. Prompto won’t let anyone in, after what happened. While Ignis can hypothesize, he is no mind-reader, especially when he cannot suss out Prompto’s body language and has to rely on his words. “Prompto, will you tell me what happened?”

“I really can’t. I know you want to help, but I just… I can’t.”

“And when you are?”

“You’ll be the first one I come too,” Prompto promises. He sounds sincere, but still, Ignis aches for him—for the distance between them, that keeps Ignis in the dark. Useless.

It was Noctis who always had a way of reaching into the sorrow within Prompto and pulling him back to them. Ignis removes his glasses. He thinks it’s probably still time to sleep. But for once, having sight does not offer significant advantage on knowing the time. Not without daylight to measure it. Still—”Prompto, come take the bed. I’ll—”

“No. No way. With your old man bones, you’ll snap right in half,” it’s a joke, if a poor one.

Ignis would usually argue but he is tired now, the adrenaline that woke him fading just as fast. Prompto is safe, if not well. There is naught to be done tonight. “Prompto, I love you very much. I’m here.”

“I know, Iggy. Me too. I’m sorry—I’m sorry I can’t let you see.”

And they both know, he’s not talking about Ignis’s vision. Ignis swallows, thick. “When you are ready,” he repeats. “If you’re ready.”

+ 

“Heya, Igs,” Prompto boots are heavy on the kitchen tile. It’s very kind. Talcott has a habit on sneaking up on him, and Ignis pulled his daggers on him last week. He hasn’t been by to visit, since, and Ignis cannot fault him. “Sorry I didn’t call ahead. Gladio said you’ve been busy with Lestallum logistics.”

He’s been busy researching the tombs, but Prompto needn’t know until something is found to help Noct. “Indeed. There is a lot to organize in our last bastion.”

Prompto hums. A heavy thump sounds and Ignis suspects Prompto leapt onto the counter. A terrible habit, that none of them could break him of. “Yeah. I’ve been helping setting up lights around Haven. Most techs don’t have any combat experience, but we’re making a good go of it.”

It’s an important job, one that suspects is more needed than his own role. People willing to brave the night to set up the tech they need are in fewer supply than anyone suspected. The women of Exineris are talented, certainly, but they’re needed at the plant. Prompto’s feet bang against the cabinets, swinging away.

“I think we should talk, Iggy. I haven’t been my best lately, and before you say nobody else has either, may I remind you that your whole mantra while Noct and I were in high school was that other people’s bad behavior wasn’t an excuse to _behave poorly_ ,” Prompto gets it all out without taking a single breath.

Ignis feels for the edges of the carrot before he begins slicing. “What would you like to discuss?”

“Us? I haven’t been very—”

“If you’re going to be self-deprecating, please alter your language. I won’t listen to you belittle one of my favorite people.” It’s perhaps harsh, but sometimes Prompto needs a firm nudge to keep from degrading himself.

“Sorry,” Prompto huffs. “Touching is hard. I feel… It makes me feel… I don’t know. It’s just hard. I’m afraid, I guess. I know it’s just you. Or Gladdy. Or Iris or whatever. But when people touch me, I feel awful. Like I’m back there and I’m wondering if it’s—” Prompto draws himself to a shuddering standstill.

His feet cease beating rhythmically against the cabinet doors. Ignis keeps his hands at their task. “He wore our faces?”

“I know that I shouldn’t let it get to me. It’s stupid, but—”

“I don’t think it is,” Ignis says, softer than he intends. The last time he saw Gladio’s face, it was Ardyn donning it as some twisted mask. “I’ve my share of fears. I am blind, and his magicks fool and ensnare even those with clear sight. I think your fears are unfortunately grounded.”

Prompto’s foot bangs again. “…Sorry. I forgot that he got to you, too.”

“Don’t be sorry. I simply understand, Prompto. Your fears are not baseless, and even if they were, I would not think them stupid.” Ignis feels for the bowl, and then slowly scrapes the chopped carrots into it. He starts on the eggplant.

“I don’t know if that’s comforting or not, Iggy,” Prompto laughs, half-heartedly, “I was kind of hoping you’d tell me it was stupid.”

“I’m not going to lie to you,” Ignis says. He wishes he could say it was stupid too. That he never wondered if his friends were actually Ardyn. But worrying will make him crazy. He’ll be vigilant, but he cannot obsess over a possibility. Not when they have yet to find a way to save Noctis.

“I admit that it’s harder now, for me to give you physical space. A few months ago, I could have given that space easily. But now, the distance makes knowing you difficult. I have to rely on your words. It’s not your fault. It’s just the reality of our situation. You cannot bear my touch, but it makes me utterly blind.”

Prompto kicks at the cabinet. Perhaps Ignis imagines that it sounds vicious. “Sorry. I know you—”

“Perhaps you could speak more about what you’re feeling or thinking? I believe that might go a long way to assuaging my fears,” Ignis slices the eggplant as thinly as he dares.

Speaking now is already soothing Ignis’s fears. “I’ll try to be better. Um. But… I wanna. I wanna be good about being touched again. I was justing starting to be super good with it? And I don’t wanna lose it. So maybe… Maybe we can go slow? And you’ll feel better, and I”ll feel better? Someday?”

Exposure therapy does have its merits, but Ignis has never been one to dish out real pain or fear. Not to those he loves. “You’ll tell me if you feel uneasy? Or if you want me to stop? If I’m to agree to this, you’ll have to be utterly honest with me. I’m not going to risk your wellbeing.” Ignis sets aside the knife, and turns in the direction of Prompto’s beating feet.

“Yeah. ‘Course I will, Iggy. I’m not gonna make you some bad guy. That’s not who you are. So. Will you touch me? Not—not like that. But… just. I have some scars. New ones. If you want to see them, you can.”

Ignis lets out a long, slow breath. He can do that, for Prompto. “Dinner first,” he says. It will have to be sufficient time to ready himself for whatever distress is to come.

 

Prompto asks, “So uh… Should I take my shirt off…?”

“However you like.” Ignis pops the snap on his glove with his teeth, and carefully peels the last one off. He folds them neatly, and finds the dresser to place them on.

The rustling that follows tells him that Prompto has removed something. What, Ignis is about to see. “Remember, if you wish me to stop—”

“I’ll tell you. I promise.”

Ignis settles on the bed, near enough Prompto’s thigh is a long, jittery line of heat against his own. “I’ll begin with your face,” he decides.

“Yeah? I don’t have any cool scars like Gladio,” Prompto laughs. “But if you want, go ahead.”

“I miss your face.”

Prompto is smiling when Ignis traces over the sharp contours of his cheekbones. He cups Prompto’s face in both hands, thumbs petting over the curve of his jaw. “All right?”

“Yeah.”

He moves up, over the smooth skin of his cheeks where Ignis recalls freckles. Up further, and he can feel the fragile, puffy skin under his eyes. It seems Prompto hasn’t been sleeping well. Ignis shifts his attentions to Prompto’s expressive mouth, fingertips circling his lips, feeling for his smile. It’s small, but there. “Iggy,” Prompto says, and there’s some heat there.

“Where do you want me?”

It’s a familiar script, for an unfamiliar situation. They haven’t been intimate since before they left for Altissia a lifetime ago, but it is familiar enough. The anxiety nags at him—should they ever want to be intimate again, how will Ignis manage? But this is neither the time or place. This is merely to accommodate his need for sight, and to help Prompto move forward.

“Down? There’s some new ones on my shoulders.” 

Ignis drags his hands south, palms pressed full onto Prompto’s heated skin. The house is chilly, though. Gooseflesh rises beneath Ignis’s touch. Prompto shivers as Ignis’s hands approach his neck, but says nothing.

The new scars on his shoulders feel deep—the scar tissue heavy and knotted—for all that they are thin. He thinks a knife, Ardyn’s most likely, was the perpetrator. He thumbs over the ridge of one gently. “Does it hurt?”

“Not much.”

“Where is the next?”

Prompto says, “Down under my ribs, left side.”

Ignis follows his directions exactly. Prompto’s skin is radiant with heat. It’s only been a few months, but he’s missed him so. He feels over the new scar under his ribs and hisses. This one is thicker. Jagged and long, and is hotter than the rest of his skin. It must hurt. “What did this?”

“Maybe no questions today,” Prompto hedges. “Is that ok?”

“Of course,” but Ignis has many. Still, he knows better than to ask. He won’t make Prompto feel that he cannot trust Ignis.

The touch helps him feel close. It will have to suffice, until Prompto is ready to confide in him. This is already a gesture of trust. Prompto squirms under Ignis’s fingers, and his breathing picks up. His ribs expand and compress beneath Ignis’s hands. “Iggy… There’s one over my left hip?” Prompto’s voice sounds high with stress.

“Are you all right?” But Prompto quivers under his hands, jerking back slightly.

“I… Think the hip’ll be the last one. That ok?”

Ignis nods, and keeps his touch featherlight as he moves down to the hip. This mark isn’t as deep, but—he traces over and over the scar tissue until… “Is that a heart?” It slips out with disgust before he can stop it.

Scalded, Prompto pulls back, breath sawing out of him. “Ardyn’s—” he clears his throat, tries again, “Ardyn’s a sick fuck.”

He’d carved a heart into Prompto’s hip. It’s a monstrous thing, and forcibly intimate. Anger runs cold through Ignis’s veins and he has to steady himself with a breath. If only Ignis hadn’t spent his touch on feeling the hurts, he could have used it on comfort. But he doesn’t move towards Prompto. “I’m sorry,” he says, though he knows that particular hollow of the words.

“It’s ok. That’s the longest I’ve been able to… since… Thank you,” Prompto manages, muffled, and Ignis assumes that he is putting on his shirts.

Ignis shakes his head, though perhaps Prompto cannot see. “Any time. Thank you for indulging me.”

“No worries, dude. I know that you like clarity. Dunno if this helped, but—”

“It helped.” Ignis thinks it did, at least. He has many questions about how Prompto is faring, but it is good to know at least some of the damage. “Will you stay?”

“Sure. Dibs on the couch!”

And Ignis finds himself loathe to argue. If Prompto wants Ignis to take the bed, he will. He doesn’t want to make Prompto feel a guest in what should be his home. He simply counts the steps to the linen closet and feels for the softest sheets and blankets. Prompto presses a hand to his hip in thanks, and the contact zings like liquid fire up his spine.

 +

“Wanna sex me up?” Prompto doesn’t slur the way he does when he drinks. The tone is forcibly light, airy even.

Ignis supposes it will suffice as a greeting, though after a long, Prompto-less month, he welcomes most anything. He pauses the report his computer was reading to him. “You’ll need to bathe first,” Ignis says, adjusting his glasses before he swivels to face him. “And don’t think there will be any carnal pleasure without a conversation first.”

“Wow, Iggy, you sure know how to woo a guy.” But there’s no bite to Prompto’s words. Ignis thinks he’s smiling.

“From the man whose line was ‘wanna sex me up,’” Ignis muses, and then shoos him to the shower. Truly, he could smell the road on him before Prompto had drawn the breath to speak.

It will be a good chance for them both to catch their bearings. Ignis tells the computer to save his progress and go into rest mode, then finds the bedroom. He sits on the edge of the bed and makes no effort to arrange himself pleasingly. It’s likely, after all, that Prompto thinks this is something Ignis wants—something that he thinks he is doing for Ignis.

Perhaps it is. Touch is grounding, certainly, but Ignis hasn’t indulged in this kind of pleasure since before he lost his sight. Before, Ignis had preferred to keep his glasses on during the act so that he could better gauge the reactions of his partner. He isn’t sure what it will be like, now, even without the added complexity of Prompto’s trauma. And potentially his own. He’s not vain enough to think that he himself isn’t a potential minefield.

“Heya, Iggy,” Prompto’s voice is subdued as the bathroom door creaks. “I… kinda shoved this at you. Um. Are you—that is, do you even—want to?”

“To tell the truth,” Ignis winces, and wishes he hadn’t begun that way. Prompto’s probably running through six different self-deprecating scenarios right now. “I haven’t felt the urge, given everything we have endured. But I love you, and I want to feel you. Perhaps… that’s enough, for a start. For me, at the very least. However, before we proceed, I’d like to know your feelings.”

The bed dips beside him. Prompto smells strongly of the sylleblossom soap Ignis hoards. They’ll run out soon, he’s sure, but some familiarity is vital. “I… I’ve been messed up, since everything.” Prompto puts a hand on the small of Ignis’s back, circling the dip of Ignis’s back dimples. A pleasant heat thrums though him at the touch. “I just want to stop feeling like he’s taken it. Like he turned me into somebody—something—I’m not. I want to let you see the real me.”

“I don’t require my sight or touch to see you,” Ignis protests.

“I know. But is it so bad that I want you to touch me?”

Ignis shakes his head. “Of course not. But let’s tread carefully, shall we? See what happens. And if either of us want to stop—”

“We’ll stop,” Prompto agrees, and seals it with a kiss.

It half misses—Ignis nearly pulls back in surprise before he realizes what’s happening. Prompto’s lips are badly chapped, but hot and fervent. He keeps his kisses light, almost chaste, so that they don’t tear open Prompto’s dear mouth. Ignis wraps his arms around Prompto’s shoulders and startles to find them bare. “Am I overdressed?” he asks, forehead pressed to Prompto’s.

“A bit,” Prompto laughs, almost forced. “I didn’t wanna get dressed just to take it off. Didn’t think you’d mind.”

Or that Ignis would notice if they decided not to attempt. Ignis asks, “Would you like me to join you?”

Prompto’s quick fingers undo his buttons with ease, and soon Ignis’s undershirt follows his shirt to the floor. Their mouths meet again, and Ignis startles at the sudden touch, even as Prompto’s hands shift down to his belt. He doesn’t pull it open. Just rests both hands on the buckle. Ignis pulls back from the kiss, to trace his hands down the lean muscle of Prompto’s back.

“Is this all right?”

“Yeah,” but he can feel the uncomfortable shift of muscle.

Prompto’s fingernails click against the metal buckle. Surely he can tell that Ignis is soft, still. Ignis forces himself to wait, let Prompto make the next move. His hands settle just above the dip in his back. Prompto kisses him again, and Ignis is ready this time to kiss back—gentle still, but not reeling from surprise.

He can’t anticipate Prompto at all. “Prompto?”

“I’m here,” says Prompto, even though Ignis is touching him. “What do you want me to do?”

Ignis finds he doesn’t know what he wants. He wants to touch, but he’s busy trying to anticipate Prompto’s needs _and_ his actions. “Touch me? May I touch you?”

“Yes,” and Prompto pries open the belt and slides it through the loops.

Permission granted, Ignis skims his hands lower, stopping at the small of his back when he feels the smooth start of a scar he didn’t know about. He feels for the edge, and follows it—it’s thick, stretching from just under his bottom left rib and down past his right hip. Prompto shivers in his touch, breath breaking. His hands never return to Ignis. Ignis stills. “Prompto?”

But gooseflesh rises across Prompto’s skin and the shivering worsens, despite Lestallum being damned hot as ever. “Prompto.”

“I’m—sorry. Sorry. I can’t—”

Ignis retracts his hands and scoots back to the head of the bed. “Hush now, darling. You needn’t be sorry.”

“Ardyn—he—” Prompto lets out a breath that quakes. “He wore your guys’ faces and he—touched me. Before the torture part, y’know.”

Disgust and hurt and outrage and anger and sorrow flood through him in tsunami waves. Ardyn used their faces to harm Prompto. That Ardyn harmed Prompto at all is intolerable, but that he used their visages to do so—“Did he use our faces when he… harmed you, as well?” The question pours out before Ignis can stop it.

“Yeah. Sometimes. I’m—” Prompto laughs, wildly, “I’m not okay, Iggy.”

Ignis’s throat is tight when he says, “I’m sorry.” What else can he say? “I’m here, if you let me be.”

“Will you… can I?”

“Yes.”

Ignis doesn’t know what Prompto wants, but whatever it is, he will give it. The bed clothes rustle as Prompto moves, and Ignis jerks when Prompto’s head settles in his lap. “Don’t—don’t touch me. But can I just… lay here?”

“As long as you like, love,” Ignis whispers, and curls his fingers into the sheets to keep them out of Prompto’s hair. “I’m here.”

“I know. Thanks, Iggy.”

 +

Ignis wakes to the smell of Ebony. He struggles awake. Gladio had left three days ago to lend his sword at Meldacio HQ, and Prompto has been out of contact for nearly a month. Apparently there had been news of refugees in Tenebrae that needed help.

Ignis calls his daggers before he enters the kitchen. “Iggy! Guess what I found you!” Prompto is very chipper despite the knives.

“Ebony,” Ignis indulges as he banishes his weapons. “Where did you—?”

“Some of the people I rescued had some,” and he sounds so pleased with himself, it’s difficult to be irate with him.

Ebony has become an increasingly rare treat. He gravitates toward Prompto and the coffee. “Is it ready?” Ignis cannot help himself.

“Almost,” and Prompto laughs, open and shining.

His feet sound on the tile—coming closer—and then Ignis startles when Prompto pulls him down into a fierce kiss. His lips have healed since last time, and his kiss is fiercer—his tongue sliding suddenly into Ignis’s mouth.

Were it not for Prompto holding him in place, Ignis thinks he would have leapt out of his skin. But he returns the kiss with some fervor, but finds his hands hanging limply at his sides. Ignis cannot be sure if he is permitted to touch, even as Prompto strives for some taste of his tonsils. Prompto pets through Ignis’s un-styled hair, and then pulls back. “Sorry. Just really good to see you.”

“I missed you,” Ignis admits. His hands remain firmly at his sides.

Prompto hums then says, “Coffee’s ready.”

 +

“Whoa. I’m hard,” Prompto sounds startled, and Ignis can relate.

They’re listening to an audiobook, a biography of a famous opera singer. It barely keeps Ignis awake, so he’s certain it can’t be as titillating as all that. He shifts slightly, readjusting Prompto’s head on his lap, their only point of contact. Ignis sits on the couch. 

Had Prompto not said anything about his situation, Ignis would not know. “Are you?” Ignis asks, mildly.

“Yeah… I haven’t really, much. Just… weird.”

“Should I be concerned about your feelings for Maria Sutherland?” Ignis teases, but can’t shake his unease.

He doesn’t know what Prompto wants. Ignis combs fingers through the curl of Prompto’s hair. “Nah, I think it’s all you, Iggy,” Prompto presses his face into Ignis’s lap. “Let’s finish this chapter, yeah? Then I’ll grab a cold shower.”

Ignis nods, settled. Having a plan eases his anxiety. “Of course,” and smooths down Prompto’s hair, content to sit here with him. That Prompto is willing to talk with him, to sit with him, that is enough.

 +

Ignis swiftly dices the radish. “Where did you find these?” He has carrots and eggplant and mushrooms and snap peas, too.

Prompto’s feet bang up against the cabinet. “Just wanted to do something nice for your birthday. Cindy helped me out,” Prompto sounds pleased. “I even got some wine. Cor says it’s the good stuff.”

An apology, Ignis thinks. Cor and Gladio went out a week ago on some errand, and the two are still at Galdin Quay. He understands. There is no need for an apology. “I can hardly wait,” even as he opens the drawer with the wine opener.

Prompto laughs. “I’ll get some glasses.”

Ignis hasn’t any wine glasses, but he thinks the wine will suffer the indignity of mugs. Ignis certainly will, especially given the company. 

Prompto fills him in on the situation outside of Lestallum as Ignis cooks, and once they’re served up, they settle on the couch to listen to their newest audiobook. A fantastical thriller that Prompto had been recommended by Crowe a lifetime ago. It’s a fast-paced read, and Ignis admittedly finished it already, before Prompto came back.

A month and a half is quite a long time following a plot twist.

Perhaps it’s good he cut ahead, because as soon as Prompto finishes the stirfry, he fidgets and fidgets against Ignis, pressed up hot against his side. He shifts. Shifts again, and nearly knocks the bowl from Ignis’s hands. “Are you all right?” Ignis asks.

“Yeah. Just—” Prompto scoots back, so they’re not touching anymore, just that threat, anticipation of heat against him, “I was wondering, if you wanted to take this to bed?”

“The book?” Ignis isn’t so obtuse, perhaps, but he’d like Prompto to say it. He sets aside his dinner.

Prompto hums. “The evening? If you’re interested, anyway, I wanna try… again. I know we haven’t, but I want to.”

“Not merely because it’s my birthday?”

“A little, but only because I’ve been thinking a lot about how much I love you, lately? I want to… be close with you. Touch you. And everything. But if you’re not ready—”

Ignis feels his face heat, but adjusts his glasses to hide it. Prompto is lovingly earnest. It’s one of the things that attracted him to Prompto from the onset.

“No. I’m interested, but let’s not let the wine go to waste.”

“Priorities the same as ever,” but Prompto is laughing.

 

Prompto doesn’t wait: the moment they stand to move the party, as it were, his mouth appears seemingly out of thin air and collides with Ignis’s. Ignis stumbles back, his calf hitting the couch and down he goes, sitting heavily. He reaches for him—and his hands find the sharp jut of Prompto’s hips. “Eager?”

“Gotta love it,” and then Prompto pulls Ignis up to his feet. “Need me to warn you next time?”

“I think I’m sufficiently warned,” a pleasant hum of anticipation fills him.

Prompto tugs him to the bedroom, and says, “Careful,” even as he pushes Ignis onto the bed.

Ignis sprawls on his carefully made bed, and asks, “Clothes first?”

Quick fingers undo his buttons, and soon after his shirt likely flies to the floor. He resists the urge to go pick it up—getting new clothing is no small task these days, but he focuses on Prompto instead. “May I?” He holds his hands out but doesn’t touch without permission.

“Yeah, come on, Iggy, touch me.”

Unleashed, Ignis drags Prompto down for another kiss, their mouths still heady with wine. Ignis drinks him down and down, and doesn’t startle when Prompto peels his belt off. Ignis feels down the sides of his face, down the slopes of his shoulders, then down his sides—he’s put on some weight, some wiry muscle that sits well. Prompto is getting stronger. They are getting stronger. They’ll be ready, when Noct wakes.

He finds the hem of Prompto’s shirt. “I’d like to divest you of this,” he says.

“Throw it on the ground~!” And then Prompto giggles.

With how him and Noct used to laugh about throwing things on the ground, Ignis thinks it must have been some ancient meme. He tugs the garment from him, and does, indeed, toss it on the ground. There will be time, later, to clean.

Ignis explores his bared skin. He feels along the marks he has seen before, but is not familiar enough with. He drags his nail gently where scar tissue meets smooth skin—Prompto shivers beneath his touch, and Ignis hesitates. Prompto presses them flush together, bared chests blazing with heat.

Ignis slows. “All right?”

“Feels good. You feel good. Oh man, I’ve missed this. You have no idea, Iggy. I love you.”

Ignis thinks he has _some_ idea. “I’ve missed you. I wish—” He hesitates, hands skimming over the waistline of Prompto’s trousers. “I wish we could be together more often.”

Prompto layers kisses on Ignis’s face. “Me too.”

Rather than let the melancholia drag them under, he tugs at Prompto’s pants. “May I?”

In answer, Prompto pulls back and soon they’re only in their briefs. Well, Prompto keeps his socks on, as he always does, for reasons that remain a mystery. Prompto settles back atop Ignis. Gentle hands cup Ignis’s face, and Prompto draws him into a another sweet kiss. Ignis relaxes into his bed.

A lifetime ago, perhaps Ignis would have flipped them. Would have moved down to suck Prompto off. Would have reached for some toy or a tie for Prompto’s hands. But there is time, yet, and Ignis instead arches to feel the thick heat of Prompto’s covered cock against his. “Okay?” He gasps, as the spike of heat goes straight to his gut.

“Yeah. It’s—you feel, you’re so good, Iggy,” Prompto’s teeth scrape over Ignis’s jaw.

He can’t guess what Prompto will do, and his skin feels hyper-sensitive. Every touch of Prompto’s skilled hands keeps him spiraling higher and higher. Prompto presses their hips together. Heat races through him, and he brings his hands up to the tight muscle of Prompto’s ass. “All right?”

“Yeah, Iggy,” and Prompto skims his hands down Ignis’s sides, the contact electrifying.

Ignis squeezes and Prompto’s ragged moan is all he needs. He thrusts their cocks together again, guiding the action with hands on Prompto’s bony hips. “Can I?” He snaps the elastic of Prompto’s briefs.

Prompto nods into the kiss. Ignis would rather hear it, but it will have to suffice. He kisses with fervor as he tugs down the offending garment down Prompto’s thighs—Prompto braces himself on a hand to create just enough space between them. Ignis doesn’t bother to remove it all the way. “Yours next, c’mon Iggy, lemme see you. You’re so beautiful.”

Ignis tugs his own down his thighs, and then Prompto’s slick, leaking cock nestles back against his own. He groans and searches for Prompto’s lips.

He breaks the kiss moments later. “Prompto, may I… touch you?”

They’re already touching, but Prompto understands what he means. “Yeah. Yeah, c’mon, Iggy. You’re so—you can make me feel so good.”

The praise thrums through him—despite everything, Ignis can still do this. Perhaps without the same talent he used to, but they’re here and neither have to pull back.

Trauma and pain, neither can keep them from each other for long.

Prompto surprises him with another kiss, and Ignis retaliates by wrapping his hand around their cocks. Together, they’re too thick for him to fully wrap around, but they’re slick enough he gets a smooth glide going.

It’s hot and good, and the friction is—he arches his hips and Prompto moans broken into the kiss, and it’s good, so good, to do this for Prompto, for himself, for _them_ , and they’re together, and then—Prompto’s free hand disappears. Ignis can’t feel it. He pauses, trying to orientate himself. And then Prompto’s hand slides between their bodies. Prompto laces fingers with Ignis, wrapping their hands together around their cocks.

“Yes,” Ignis breathes. “Let’s—together.”

Holding each other close and tight, they stoke them together—the heat ratcheting higher and higher, slicker and slicker, and Ignis can’t stop the noises falling from his mouth, Prompto’s breathing ragged, moaning quiet. Prompto ups the pace and Ignis follows him, right over the edge.

Prompto spills and then Ignis, and Prompto finds him for a soft kiss after. Gentle and searching and sweet. “Thank you,” he murmurs, “I… this is what I wanted. This is. This is good. Are you. Are you good, Iggy?”

“Yes, I’m—” Ignis longs to see that gentle, satisfied look on Prompto’s face, but settles for tracing his face with his clean hand, mesmerized by the feel of Prompto’s smile. “I’m good. I’m glad that you… feel comfortable enough, to share this with me.”

“I love you, Iggy,” and Prompto sounds groggy, almost slurring.

Ignis should get up and clean them off, before their spend dries tacky between them. But his limbs are gently weighted, his bed so warm. He could sink down into it, through to the floor. He rubs gently over Prompto’s sweat-slick back. “I love you, too.”

 

Ignis wakes the next morning to Prompto’s drool puddling in his clavicle. He pulls him impossibly closer, and lets sleep take him under again.


End file.
